


Elements of Style

by longleggedgit



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-15
Updated: 2010-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-07 07:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longleggedgit/pseuds/longleggedgit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is assigned to tutor Sherlock, who is none too happy about the arrangement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elements of Style

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reallycorking](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=reallycorking).



> Written for reallycorking's winning help_haiti bid! RC and I have been shooting around an AU idea where Holmes and Watson are both attending the same all-boys British boarding school, so her request was for me to start writing it! :) This is something of a vignette from that universe--I wouldn't call it a chapter in a WIP, because I'm not sure if this is even going to end up in the final fic or not, but you can definitely expect to see more of the like from me sometime in the not-so-distant future. The setting is something like an early 1960s British boarding school (I'm actually basing it on one in particular). Hopefully I didn't get too many details wrong, but if I did don't hesitate to tell me about it.

The door to the classroom opens and slams shut in the same motion and John lifts an eyebrow, saying nothing as Sherlock Holmes crosses the room to John's desk and slams his books down on top of it.

"It's ridiculous, of course, the very notion of my needing tutoring, so I suggest we abandon the farce before we even begin and avoid wasting a great deal of time." Sherlock does not sit but stands facing John, head cocked at an angle, arms crossed in front of his chest.

John is stunned silent for a moment, but he recovers quickly, pulling out the chair next to his. "Why don't you have a seat," he says. He holds out a hand, adding, "I'm John, by the way. I don't think we've formally met."

Sherlock eyes the hand with something like distaste—or maybe it's distrust—and ignores it, but sits down anyway.

"I know who you are," he scoffs, turning the chair around to a straddle so he can rest his arms and chin on the back. "And you know who I am, so introductions are frivolous."

So far, Sherlock is every bit exactly what John has been warned about, and every bit what John was expecting. Which is amusing, perhaps, but John doesn't delude himself into thinking vague first impressions mean he knows a person. Especially one so obviously complex as The Hill School's most notorious student.

"Maybe," John says. "But all I really know about you is what I've heard from rumors, and I'd be surprised if you knew a damned thing about me."

It's a challenge, and John can see by the glint in Sherlock's eyes that he intends to meet it.

"The rumors are probably true," Sherlock says, "with the exception of the one about Master Frost's iguana, for which I take no credit. As for you," —he shifts in his seat and narrows his eyes at John, like he's having a tough time deciding where to start first. "John Hamish Watson, high marks in most of your classes although dismal at science. You aspire to be a doctor, for which your science marks must really improve. Your father died young and your mother never remarried, so when at home you're a coveted only child. You walk with a slight limp because of a childhood bout of polio, which you were lucky to have recovered from as well as you did. Most weekends you take out a young lady from Adler's Academy, although rarely is it the same young lady." He smiles. "Shall I go on?"

John doesn't bother to hide the way his cheeks are burning by the end of Sherlock's monologue, although he's at least as impressed as offended. He shifts his bad leg so as to hide it better under the desk and tries to sound unaffected when he says, "Very impressive. Are you going to tell me how you gleaned all that?"

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock shakes his head and lets out a short laugh. "Half of it I inferred," he says. "The other half is only gossip."

"I hadn't realized there was so much gossip about me," John says.

At this, Sherlock gives him a pitying look. "My dear John. This is boarding school. There's gossip about everybody."

If he were in the mood for revenge, John would start to recount some of the rumors he's heard about Sherlock—how he was held back in middle school, for example, and is therefore actually a year older than the rest of the sixth formers, or how he smokes and possibly does other activities rather more illegal in the dorm room he has to himself after driving out three roommates. But John isn't in the mood, and even if he were, he somehow doubts Sherlock would be fazed.

"Too right," is all he says instead. "But what I find hard to understand is how someone of your obvious intellect could be failing high school English."

Sherlock's face screws up in immediate disgust and he drags his hands through his hair, mussing it into an even more unruly state.

"_Rules_," he snaps, voice dripping with contempt. "The only thing these bloody fascists care about is _rules._ You could write the greatest piece of literary work since Aristotle and they'd fail it for a couple of improperly used apostrophes."

"Be that as it may," John says, "you're clearly clever enough that you could have memorized the rules of apostrophes in a day."

Sherlock seems to preen under the compliment, and John immediately regrets saying it, biting as it may have been. Then Sherlock taps his temple and looks John square in the eye, favoring him with a lopsided smile. "There's only room for so much up here, old boy. Got to save space for the important stuff."

John would like to ask how knowing the extensive personal history of complete strangers falls into the category of important stuff, but decides against it. "I see," is all he can manage.

"Well," Sherlock says, standing suddenly and making to grab his books. "Since we understand one another, John Hamish Watson, it's been a pleasure—"

"You still need to pass English in order to graduate," John interrupts him. "And I will tell Master Thompson if you refuse to even try."

Sherlock scowls and sits back down again. "I'm a dangerous enemy to make, you know," he says, but he doesn't sound at all threatening.

John smiles. "Then let's not be enemies. Let's be friends." He doesn't wait for Sherlock to respond, just opens up his own English text to the first chapter. "From what Master Thompson tells me, you need to start right from the basics."

After a few seconds of silence, John chances another look at Sherlock. He's watching John with an unreadable expression on his face, neither kindly nor antagonistic, and when John pointedly clears his throat Sherlock scoots his chair a little closer.

"They're making you tutor me as punishment for something," Sherlock decides at length. "Something to do with girls."

Again, John can feel his cheeks growing hot.

"_The Elements of Style_, Sherlock," he says, jabbing a finger at the book.

"I don't let anyone call me that," Sherlock says, thoughtful rather than reprimanding. "I suppose it'd be all right if you did, though."

Before he can help himself, John rises to the bait. "Why's that?"

Sherlock grins. "We're friends now, like you said. I'm afraid you're the only one I've got."

By the end of their half-hour session, John is left still struggling to figure out if this is a positive development or not.


End file.
